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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323999">For There is Nothing lost, That May be Found, if Sought</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bog_Wizard/pseuds/Bog_Wizard'>Bog_Wizard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(they're there but not super important), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Fix-It, Gerry gets roped into saving the world while looking for his not-dead boyfriend, Gertrude is there but only for a chapter so I'd feel bad actually tagging her, Grief/Mourning, I promise there is fluff between them eventually, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, additional characters to be tagged as they appear, but Gerry doesn't realize that for A While, canon-typical fear, eventual avatar Gerry, it/its pronouns for michael, lots of pining once he does, over someone who isn't actually dead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:20:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323999</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bog_Wizard/pseuds/Bog_Wizard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Shelley and Gertrude Robinson go to Sannikov Land together, but only one of them returns to the Archives. In the Spiral halls, Michael makes the most difficult decision he's ever made; the Ceaseless Watcher and It Is Not What It Is cannot mix, and to pretend otherwise would only cause Gerry needless pain. It would be better for them both if he were to remain "dead." </p><p>Gerard Keay thinks his boyfriend is dead, at least until rumors of a familiar blond man start cropping up in newly-made statements. Finding what doesn't want to be found is hard, though, especially you're also caught up in trying to stop an apocalypse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay/Michael</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>209</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm gonna keep it real with you, chief. I've barely planned this story out yet but that didn't stop me from getting really excited and writing this already. Gonna apologize in advance for my lack of a consistent posting schedule; just cause I've got lots of time in isolation doesn't mean I always put it to good use</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[Click] </p><p>[The recorder whirs in the silence, long enough to seem as though it was started in error.]</p><p>Gertrude says these recorders are for “Archival use only.” [He laughs, a dry, joyless thing.]</p><p>Gertrude says a lot of things. Like, how she said that what she and Michael were going to do would be safe. That they would be back safe, and soon.</p><p>And now, he’s gone.</p><p>…</p><p>[His voice is thick with emotion, when he finally continues speaking.] He’s gone, and they won’t even tell me what happened to him, what went so wrong, why there isn’t even a body to bury.<br/>
He is gone, and I’m stuck here in these godforsaken archives, without the only thing that made the job bearable. </p><p>We had just finally gotten an apartment together, you know? We aren’t [another pause; he takes a deep breath, and when he continues speaking, it is clear that he is holding back tears.] I’m not even fully unpacked yet. Michael was…so, so excited to decorate the place. I don’t….I don’t know how I’m supposed to go home, now. </p><p>…</p><p>Don’t know how I’m going to afford rent, either. </p><p>…</p><p>I don’t…God, it’s been a while since I’ve felt this pathetic. [ He spits the word out angrily, rage building as it replaces the sorrow in his tone.] I don’t even have anyone I can talk to about all this shit, not really. No one who could even begin to understand. Hence the reason I’m sitting here, in these fucking archives, talking into a goddamn stolen tape recorder. </p><p>…</p><p>(<em>Sigh</em>)</p><p>I’m gong to get a fucking drink. I don’t care what Gertrude or Elias has to say about it. It’s not like they can fire me, anyways. </p><p>[Click]</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Michael has an identity crisis</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this took way to long to write for how short it is</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Michael Shelley refused to die. </p><p>The hallways writhed, confusion and anguish twisting the impossible labyrinth into even greater spirals. It covered every wall, every mirror, bleeding out in every direction. At the center of it all, a distortion. The Great Liar, the Throat of Delusion. Twisting Deceit. </p><p>Michael. </p><p>It did not want this name, these memories, these <em>feelings</em>. They were not, <em>should not</em> have been, and yet, they were. Familiar, and yet so very alien, crudely slotting themselves in like so many misshapen puzzle pieces. </p><p>It was crimson agony, edges too sharp and too soft that were never meant to meet. It ached with the loss of something it could no longer remember, something it had never had. It ached even more for what had been roughly lashed into its place, a pale imitation of Becoming, crude and bloody and far, far too known. </p><p>It thrashed angrily, clawing at the scarlet ties, the deepening furrows only succeeding in making the agony worse. It settled for a scream, discordant and echoing, shattering mirrors with the sound of its anguish. </p><p>A single thought rose, unbidden, to the forefront of its mind as it lay amidst the shards of glass. No – not a thought. A memory, familiar; a beacon of solace in the wasteland of torment. It was soft, almost painfully so. A warm embrace, lazy mornings. Comfort. </p><p>Gerry. </p><p>It screamed again, louder and harsher and longer, the hallways shuddering in response. The distortion had never known, never <em>wanted</em> to know love. </p><p>Michael Shelley had. And he would not forget. </p><p>He wanted so badly to forget. </p><p>Even more so, he wanted to run to Gerry. Indecision wracked its mangled form; trembling not-quite-hands reached forwards, ignoring the shards of glass in its path. Something that was almost a door formed beneath its grasping hand, and it froze, a tremor running through it at the sight of the pale, yellowed wood. </p><p>Another memory surfaced; of tattooed eyes, of an archive, of a great <em>knowing</em>, of being <em>seen</em>. It recoiled, curling in on itself, safe among its spiraling hallways, its senseless doors. Safe from the watcher and its eyes and its <em>knowing</em>, now during his moment of awful vulnerability. </p><p>Ceaseless eyes and twisting nothings do not mix; of this, it was certain. </p><p>Gerard Keay would undeniably say the same, it lied to itself. The words cut deeply, but it was a different ache, one that it clung to, desperately. </p><p>Alone, surrounded by the shattered remains of what <em>almost</em> was, what could not be, the Distortion wept.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promise not every chapter will be this short<br/>that being said, next chapter will probably take even longer than this one because a) longer chapter and 2) I'm also currently working on a fic for the gerrymichael big bang so! Please be patient with me<br/>Thanks for reading!! And, bless those of you that commented, you're the reason this chapter got done &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gerry doesn't want to do his job; Elias is an ass</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey y'all! It's been quite a bit longer in between chapters than I was originally planning,and I apologize for that! As you may be aware, if you happened to read my note before the first chapter of this, I basically jumped into writing this fic with nothing more than a vague idea of the conflict between Gerry being beholding-aligned and Michael being part of the spiral and going "Hey, wouldn't that be cool!" I didn't want to keep putting out chapters without an idea of where I was going with this, hence the long wait.<br/>That being said, this has managed to evolve into a fix-it fic, because I don't want Sasha or Tim to die and why not prevent the apocalypse while at it? (This meant I had to re-listen to all of TMA. That's why it took so long.) I updated the summary a little to match better, but the title still works with the now-existent plot, so that gets to stay the same. Yay!<br/>All I am going to say is that it is going to be a wild ride, and I really hope y'all enjoy it with me. I feel like I owe Gerry money for all the shit I'm gonna put him through. Sorry Gerry &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gerard Keay was not going to do his job. </p><p>Sure, he was still going to show up at the institute. He had to. But, he was not going to file paperwork, he wouldn’t follow up on any statement leads, and he was going to do everything in his power to avoid helping Gertrude Robinson with <em>anything</em>. If he could manage to be a <em>nuisance</em>, well, that would be even better. </p><p>As it was, when some poor, conflicted statement-giver wandered down to the archives, he was very busy. Gerry didn’t bother to look up as they stopped at his desk, but he didn’t need to. The fear oozing off of him was palpable, and Gerry could see him fidgeting nervously and wringing his hands out of the corner of his eye. </p><p>“Hello, yes, I’ve come to make a statement? The, uh, the receptionist, I think she said her name was Rose? She pointed me this way.” </p><p>“Archivist’s office is over there,” Gerry said, nodding his head towards the clearly marked door. He didn’t pause in his work, carefully gluing two googly eyes to the front of his tape dispenser. </p><p>“Ah. Right, thank you.” The man took a step, then paused. Gerry could feel him staring. “Are those…Googly eyes?” </p><p>Gerry didn’t answer straight away, letting the silence stretch on just long enough to be uncomfortable, blowing a large bubble with his chewing gum. “What does it look like?” </p><p>“Uh…Right, yeah.” He turned as though to leave, but paused again before he could take another step. Gerry sighed loudly, wishing the man would hurry on and get out of his hair.</p><p>“Say, aren’t you-“ Gerry looked at him then, directly in the eyes, with a stare that he knew conveyed both his annoyance and a challenge. </p><p>The man was small and round, with a face rather reminiscent of a rat. His eyes widened as Gerry glared at him, and he took a step back, apparently no longer quite so keen on his question. </p><p>“Aren’t I what?”</p><p>“I…uh…” A different sort of fear filled the man’s expression, and he turned away, hastily walking to knock on the door to Gertrude’s office instead. </p><p>Gerry snapped his gum, returning his attention to the glue that was slowly dripping out of its tube and onto the surface of his desk. He considered it for a moment, then stuck some of the stupid plastic eyes there, too. </p><p>He knew what the man had wanted to ask him. “Aren’t you Gerard Keay?” The man who supposedly skinned his own mother, then managed to escape a proper sentence. It wasn’t all too often he was recognized, and even rarer that he was <em>asked</em> about it, but there were always at least a few freaks who kept unhealthily on top of those things. </p><p>It looked like <em>this</em> poor fool in particular had finally gone too far, waded into waters just a bit too deep and too rough to stand comfortably. He could see it all over him, the mark of the Slaughter. From the look of him, he’d been lucky to survive his first encounter. Gerry suspected he wouldn’t get quite so lucky with the second. </p><p>It almost made him feel bad, thinking this way, refusing to help. But, he considered, pulling a few random files and directional markers off of the shelves, there wasn’t much anyone could do. Not unless he wanted to tail the man and fight of whatever was practically guaranteed to come after him.</p><p>Wouldn’t that be a story for the message boards. “Gerard Keay followed me home and fought off a monster for me!” </p><p>He scowled at the thought of message boards, of the various forums and websites devoted to murderers and famous serial killers. Forums he was quite sure the man currently seated in Gertrude’s office was a part of. He made a mental note to check a few of them when he got home; if they were going to get a sudden influx of gawking murder fanatics touting fake statements, then he’d at least like to be prepared.</p><p>It was nearly half an hour before the office door opened again. Gerry didn’t bother trying to listen to what was being said, though he could have if he wanted to; that door was ridiculously thin. The man came out looking somewhat calmer, as they so often did, though he didn’t stick around to chat, giving Gerry another terrified look before scurrying back out of the door. </p><p>Elias was the next to enter the archives, no doubt on his way to have another argument with Gertrude. Much to Gerry’s dismay, he stopped at his desk first, taking in the mess of paper and glue that covered its surface with one eyebrow raised. Gerry expected a reprimand, at the very least, but Elias, apparently, had other plans. </p><p>“Ah, Gerard, I’m glad I caught you. I hope you’re keeping well.” </p><p>Gerry didn’t reply, not that it mattered. Elias continued speaking without waiting for one. </p><p>“As I’m sure you’re well aware, Michael’s desk needs to be cleaned out. I know how close the two of you were, and considering that you recently started living together, I figured I would give you the opportunity to take care of it. Keep all of his things together to pass on to next of kin, you know.” </p><p>It was several moments before Gerry managed to draw in another breath. Between his preoccupation with making a mess and the aggravation of being recognized, he’d very nearly managed to forget - the events of the past week, the empty bed waiting at home, the giant, aching hole where his heart used to be; it all came rushing back, like a punch to the gut. </p><p>“Gerard?” Elias asked casually, as though he didn’t know that Gerry’s world was falling apart at the seams all over again. </p><p>“I’ll do it,” he managed, choking on the words. He exhaled shakily, hoping Elias wouldn’t notice as he slowly released his death grip on the unfortunate statement he had been holding. </p><p>“Good. I knew I could count on you.” He paused, eyeing Gerry’s desk again, taking in the tiny googly eyes that were in the process of being glued onto the punctuation marks of several statements.<br/>
“Keep up the good work,” he said with a smile, patting Gerry on the shoulder before spinning on his heel and walking into Gertrude’s office. </p><p>Gerry scowled after him, showing the statements and their still-wet glue back into whatever file folder he grabbed first. He stuffed the whole mess onto a random shelf, fuming. He didn’t want to be doing <em>anything</em> Elias approved of, even sarcastically. </p><p>The conversation left him itchy, his skin crawling at Elias’s patronizing tone. “Pass on to the next of kin.”. Elias knew – the man knew everything that went on in the institute, no matter how well you tried to hide it. He knew that Michael <em>had</em> no next of kin. Gerry knew how this place operated; it was part of the reason Elias hired Michael in the first place. </p><p>He’d known that they were together, too; he’d alluded to it on <em>several</em> occasions, and Gerry had seen the perverse, sadistic joy in his eyes when he’d asked Gerry to clean out the desk. </p><p>Gerry hated him. </p><p>He stood in front of the shelves for a moment, fists clenched as he tried to calm down. Being angry wouldn’t help anything, he knew. Michael was gone, wasn’t coming back, he couldn’t change that.</p><p>But the anger hurt so much less than the sadness, so he hung onto that, clinging to it desperately as he upended a filing box, dumping the statements inside of it out onto the floor. He ignored the little voice in the back of his mind, the one that told him Michael would hate what he was doing to his meticulously organized files. </p><p><em>Michael would hate being dead, too</em>, Gerry told it maliciously as he slammed the box onto the desk that had once been Michael’s. </p><p>And if, when he found the pictures of the two of them, stashed among the paperwork in a drawer, a few tears slid down his cheeks, Gerry ignored those, too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I keep  making myself sad writing these chapters. Why did I decide to write a fic that's not going to get fluffy until at least halfway through. Who let me do this</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Poor Michael just wanted a snack :(</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Michael, as it was now called, had not left the safety of its corridors since the failure of the Great Twisting. The Distortion did not grieve; it could not. Human emotions were not something it possessed. But still, it did not leave. </p>
<p>Time meant nothing here, but as it passed, Michael began to feel…better. </p>
<p>It was still wrong, at its core. The pieces that had been forced together did not, would not ever, fit. They ground together, teeth wearing down until Michael could almost pretend that they did. It had always been good at lying, to itself, to others. </p>
<p>What was a lie, after all, but a distortion of the truth? </p>
<p>It wandered its halls, empty and still, and a gnawing desire grew. Hunger, too, was not something the Distortion could experience, but this was perhaps the closest it could ever come. The emptiness echoed, growing louder and louder in its dreadful silence, until Michael could hide no more. </p>
<p>And so, the Distortion went hunting. It was easy. A young man, searching desperately for a door. He found one, but his joyous relief faded fast, curdling slowly, becoming darker, sweeter. His fear saturated the corridors, reflecting off of the mirrors, compounding until it seemed as though the halls would be rent asunder with the very weight of it. </p>
<p>It should have been soothing; the corridors were sated, the Distortion’s purpose fulfilled. It waited, but the relief it expected did not come. Or rather, it did. The awful, clawing desire dissipated, but its wake dragged in a new friction, a feeling of strife, of <em>dissention.</em></p>
<p>It keened desperately, shifting and dissolving and reforming itself as the very cogs of its being grated together unbearably. It could feel the wanderer begin to run, attempting to outpace the sounds tearing their way through his new prison. The fresh spike of fear sent a new wave of agony through its form, and it collapsed, curling in on itself. </p>
<p>It did not want this; it felt <em>wrong.</em> </p>
<p>It lied to itself, then. Lying was a comfort, a distraction. Lies were all it <em>was</em>. It did not know what it wanted, it lied to itself, but that did not matter. For it, Michael, the distortion, did not, <em>could</em> not want anything. It had its purpose, its hallways, its <em>fear</em>, and that was all it needed. </p>
<p>…</p>
<p>It wanted Gerry.</p>
<p>The realization hurt nearly as much as its unbecoming had. It unraveled the lies, destroyed their meager comfort with desire and <em>yearning</em> and memories of a man Michael had once loved, rough nights and soothing embraces, a reminder of what could not <em>be</em>.</p>
<p>It cried out again, a great twisting caterwaul of pain accosting the hallways with its revelation. The halls shifted with it, collapsing and reforming, the hapless wanderer trapped within cowering in fear and awe. </p>
<p>The man lasted far shorter than he should have, the terror proving to be too much for him. The corridors were still again, cold silence replacing the beautiful harmonies of nourishing terror. Michael stilled with them, once he was gone. It remained still for long after. </p>
<p>Eventually, far too soon, the discomfort returned, creeping slowly inwards until it coated everything in its sickly rancor. </p>
<p>Michael, the Distortion, went hunting again. </p>
<p>What else could it do?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Michael continues to be hard for me to write! I think I'm slowly getting a better hang of it, though :) Not Every Michael chapter will be this short, I promise. I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading! I love you &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Statement of Lianne Blake, regarding her time spent lost in her neighborhood.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: I am an American who has spent all of 3 days in London. I picked a random neighborhood that an article claimed was affordable to live in and a bus stop off of Google maps and said Ms. Blake lives there. If you know anything about London and my choices don't make sense, please just pretend they do please and thank you &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[Click, tape recorder whirs]</p><p>Statement of Gerard Keay, regarding the current state of the archives. Date, doesn’t fucking matter.</p><p>[There is a heavy <em>clunk</em> of boots being set upon a desk, coupled with the <em>creak</em> of a chair leaning backwards.] I’d say that not doing my job is going quite well. For me, anyways. Don’t know what dear old Gertie thinks about it. Don’t much care, either. I haven’t seen her in a few days; it’s easy enough to be off on a break whenever she decides to come out of her office.</p><p>As for the Archives, well. Given his…current state, [Gerard’s voice is pained as he says the words, but he quickly clears his throat and continues,] I daresay Michael would be proud of what I’ve accomplished.</p><p>It’s a mess. I’ve accomplished a mess. [There is another <em>clunk</em> as all four legs of the chair abruptly find the ground once more and a shuffling sound as the recorder is picked up.]</p><p>I hope he would be proud. I’m not sure, actually. He cared so much about this job, about Gertrude.</p><p>[Paper rustles as it is pulled from a shelf and dropped to the floor.] He cared so much about her, and she got him killed.</p><p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p><p>[Musing] Elias claims that if he dies, so do I. So does Gertrude. Before, I was worried about Michael getting hurt. But I wonder-</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Unknown</h4>
</div><p>[Apprehensive] Uh, Hello?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>(Deep sigh) Hello.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Unknown</h4>
</div><p>I’m here to make a statement.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Mm. The Archivist…Uh. I think she left for the day, actually. You’ll probably want to come back tomorrow.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Unknown</h4>
</div><p>I…uh…Are you sure? Please…Please I just want to talk about it. [Her voice becomes frantic, and shakes as though she is about to cry.] It took me almost an hour on the tube to get here, I can’t just – I just want to <em>talk</em> about it. No one will <strong>listen</strong> to me, everyone keeps-</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Alright, alright! Just – calm down. It’s ok. I can take your statement. Let me just –</p><p>[Click]</p><p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p><p>[Click, tape recorder whirs]</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Alright. Statement of –</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Unknown</h4>
</div><p>Lianne Blake.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Regarding?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>Uh…Getting…Very lost.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p><em>Oookay</em>. Statement Begins.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>Just … Just like that? What do I do?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>You tell our good friend the tape recorder here [pat, pat] what happened.</p><p>[The recorder whirs in the silence, Lianne’s uncertainty extremely apparent.]</p><p>I can ask some questions, if that would help you.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>[Relieved] Y-yes, I believe it would.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Alright. You said you were lost. Where were you? Where was the last place you knew?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>Well, that’s just it, you see. I got off the bus at my normal stop - Barking Road, in Plaistow. It should have only been a few minutes’ walk to my flat – the building is only a few blocks down from the station. When I got off the bus, it seemed just like any other day. It was late afternoon, and I saw a few others who tended to be on the same bus, so far, so normal.</p><p>At some point, I realized I no longer had any idea where I was. I stopped, figuring I must have zoned out or something, passed my door. It was so strange. When I looked around, trying to get my bearings, it felt like I <em>should</em> know it, but I didn’t recognize anything around me. It felt like déjà vu.</p><p>[Defensive] Now, I know how that sounds. But I know my neighborhood! This <strong>wasn’t</strong> it. It didn’t make any sense – it still doesn’t! [She begins speaking louder, clearly panicking.] I wasn’t…I wasn’t walking that long! I checked my phone; it had only been 5 minutes! I shouldn’t have even passed my flat yet! [She inhales sharply, choking on a sob.]</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>[Comforting] Woah, hey, it’s alright. You’re not lost anymore, ok? [A tissue box scrapes against the wood of the desk as it is slid across the surface.]</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>I…sorry. [She takes a deep, calming breath we hear a tissue being pulled out of the box.]</p><p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p><p>Wh…why the eyes? Your tattoos?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Oh, those. [Obviously grinning] It’s for the <em>eye</em>-sthetic.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>[She lets out a snort of laughter.] Oh, that was bad.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>So, you realized something was wrong. What did you do next?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>I asked for help. Or rather, I tried to. There were people around, quite a few of them. Lots of cars, too. I kept asking where I was, trying to get directions. Their answers made no sense. It was English, definitely, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. I would ask them to repeat it, but after the third or so time they’d get annoyed and leave.</p><p>Sometimes they would point at a street sign, if there was one nearby. But the signs didn’t make sense, either! The letters on them kept shifting and changing, reading strings of gibberish or strange symbols. Sometimes it would form the name of a street, but it was never one I recognized.</p><p>There was a few people that…</p><p>[She pauses, confused.] I…Hmm.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>What’s the matter?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>I…Just…Most of the people I asked seemed like they were at least <em>trying</em> to help. But there were some who didn’t even <strong>pretend</strong> to. I tried to talk to them, and they would just laugh, and laugh, and <em>laugh</em>, a horrible, echoing thing that made my skull feel like it was going to split open. It wasn’t dignified, I’ll admit, but I ran from them.</p><p>It sounds ridiculous to say but…Looking back on it now, I think it was all the same person? In the moment, I could have <em>sworn</em> it was multiple people but… [Confidently] No. No, it was definitely the same man every time.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Do you remember what he looked like?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>[She huffs, frustrated.] That’s the tricky part. It’s hard – hard to put my finger on. He was tall…very tall. Over 6 feet, for sure. I think…I think he was blond? Long blond hair, past his shoulders. Curly. It’s hard to pin down anything else. Kinda makes my head hurt to think about it for too long.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>He didn’t happen to tell you his name, did he? [His voice sounds oddly strangled.]</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>N…No. He <em>did</em> give me directions a few times, now that I think of it. It sticks out, because they seemed to make sense at first, but when I followed them, I just ended up even more lost. Even when I couldn’t see him, I kept hearing that weird, breathy laugh. I still hear it, in my nightmares.</p><p>[She lets out a shaky breath and falls silent once more.]</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>[Gently] You found your way out, clearly.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>[Hesitant] Y-yeah. I think so. I <em>am</em> here, right? I don’t…I’m not sure, sometimes.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Do you want me to pinch you?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>It couldn’t hurt, right?</p><p>[Fabric rustles as Gerard shifts.]</p><p>Ow! Never mind, I guess I was wrong. [They both laugh.] Ok, yeah, I’m here.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>How did you find your way home?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>I’m not sure. I was hopelessly lost, just wandering aimlessly at that point, when I thought I recognized one of the buildings around me, for real this time. The corner shop, across the street from my building. I ran towards it, and suddenly I was back on my block. It made no sense. I just…I <em>wasn’t</em> on my street. I know I wasn’t. But, just like that, I was.</p><p>[She laughs bitterly.] I keep saying “It made no sense” as if any of it did. Ridiculous.</p><p>[Deep sigh.] It’s been…about a week? I’ve tried to tell people, but everyone either looks at me like I’m crazy, or tells me to <strong>lay off the alcohol</strong>, or makes some <em>idiotic</em> joke about my sense of direction. My sense of direction is <em>great</em>! [She pauses briefly, then continues, quieter now.] Or, at least, it was. I keep getting turned around. I got lost in my <em>building</em> a few days ago, I don’t even know <em>how</em>. There’s only one hallway per floor.</p><p>[Exhausted] I just – I don’t expect anything much to come of this. I just wanted to <em>talk</em> about it, you know. With someone who would – <strong>hopefully</strong> – believe me.</p><p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p><p>[Nervous] D-do you? Believe me?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>[Sigh] Yes. You left your information with Rosie? When you signed in? Good. I’ll pass this on to our research department. No guarantees, but if they can find anything out, they’ll be in contact.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>[Relieved] Thank you.</p><p>Wh…what do I do? If I get lost again? [She sounds frightened, her voice shaking.] I don’t…I don’t know if I can do that again.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Be sure of where you’re going. Pick someplace you <em>know</em> how to get to, decide you’re going there, and start walking.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>Are you sure?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>Positive.</p><p>[He picks up the recorder, as though to turn it off, before speaking again suddenly.] Before you go through a door, <strong>any door</strong>, <em>make sure</em> you check that it’s the right one.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Lianne</h4>
</div><p>I…Okay. Thank you.</p><p>[Click]</p><p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p><p>[Click, tape recorder whirrs.]</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <h4>Gerard</h4>
</div><p>So much for not doing my job. Although, I think that was technically Gertie’s job. Not sure if that’s better or worse. [He sighs, the sound full of sorrow.] She was just so <em>scared</em>. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just <em>leave</em> her like that.</p><p>[He clears his throat, all business now.] Definitely the Spiral’s influence at work. I hope she’ll be ok. She seemed to be doing well enough, considering. I know how disorienting encounters with it can be.</p><p>[Uncertain] That man she described - it almost sounded like… <strong>No</strong>. [His voice hardens.] No, that’s just the grief talking. Michael was hardly the only tall, blond man in London. Whoever this guy was, he was clearly some Spiral avatar. A newer one, maybe? Haven’t read any statements featuring him before, and I have read <em>plenty</em> of the damn things.</p><p>[He sighs again, despondent.] No. Michael is gone.</p><p>[He pauses, and a hint of uncertainty creeps back into his tone.] Right?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shout-out to my friend Lianne who's first name I borrowed for my one-off statement giver, it was the first name I thought of. She's not into TMA so she'll probably never know but Lianne if u ever DO happen to read this then hi ily</p><p>Extra big shout out to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitter_bitch/pseuds/glitter_bitch">glitter_bitch</a> for keeping me sane while i formatted all this damn HTML</p><p>Anyways I've been excited to write this chapter pretty much since I started writing this fic, transcripts are fun :D Hopefully it was also fun to read</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Michael begins to realize what it means it miss someone</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've been making myself vary sad with this fic so I wrote a very fluffy standalone companion fic to go with this chapter and made myself even sadder in the process <br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050641">You can find it here!!</a><br/>I'll link it again at the end of the chapter if you would prefer to read it afterwards</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Doors and corridors, mirrors, paintings. That was what Michael had become.</p>
<p>How long had it been? It felt like an eternity; it felt like no time at all. It should hate it. It did hate it, this wretched, named existence. To be known, even by something so simple as a name, was agony, constant needles digging into its very existence until it was too numb to care.</p>
<p>And so, it simply existed. Wandering the corridors that were itself, feeding when it needed. The corridors that were it were a curious thing. Impossible, labyrinthian, they should have been beyond comprehension.</p>
<p>That did not stop anyone who entered them from trying to understand. It had not stopped Michael Shelley, curious to the last, and it did not stop the poor soul, currently wandering the twisting passages. It would not help them. They would not make it out.</p>
<p>The doors, the corridors, the Distortion, all one and the same. One simply needed to cross the threshold to join them.</p>
<p>It mattered not how long had passed since a wanderer left the halls, or if they’d freed themselves. The Distortion could always find them again. The corridors would always call them home.</p>
<p>There was but one exception to the rule. Gerard Keay.</p>
<p>Gerard Keay had never entered the corridors. He had never even opened the door, never called out to the Man Who Was Not There. For all that he was a nuisance to the Desolation or the Vast, burning their books and assaulting their avatars, he had never even been a blip on the Spiral’s radar.</p>
<p>And yet, Michael knew where he was. Always. The knowledge was there constantly, buzzing in the back of its mind, infuriating in its comfort.</p>
<p>It ignored Gerard, for a time. It did not want to, as much as it tried to convince itself otherwise. It hated this yearning, the desire for something strong and safe and solid that had once and never belonged to it. It hated even more that it could find some solace in the knowledge that he was safe.</p>
<p>The only respite was when Gerard was at the Magnus Institute. It could not see into the Ceaseless Watcher’s stronghold; Gertrude’s protections were strong. Much stronger than it cared to take the time to break through. It tried to revel in the hours it could spend, free of thoughts of the man who loved something it no longer was.</p>
<p>It gave in, eventually. There were only so many battles it could fight against itself.</p>
<p>Any doorway could be made into a part of itself, if it so chose. Especially doors that did not exist. Those were its favorites, a tear in the very fabric that separated itself from reality given new form.</p>
<p>It did not use one of these tonight. It would have been too obvious. A different door, simpler, well-known to Michael Shelley and Gerard Keay alike. It did not make itself known, simply watching, lurking just beyond view as it observed the small lump, curled up tightly at the very edge of the too-large bed.</p>
<p>Michael felt a twinge in its chest, observing Gerard bundled up in every spare bit of comforter. It did not want the memories the scene summoned forth; it did not want to acknowledge how they made it feel, that they took the edge off of the pain.</p>
<p>Gerard shot straight upright in the bed, reaching out to switch the lamp on as his eyes searched the darkness of the doorway where Michael didn’t lurk.</p>
<p>Standing beyond the doorway, it watched the only thing Michael Shelley had ever considered a home. The light threw the dark circles under his eyes into sharp relief. He had not been sleeping, that much was obvious. Tear tracks streaked his face and Michael twisted uncomfortably at the sight, reigning in the part of it that wanted to run to comfort him.</p>
<p>It wasn’t until he moved to stand, climbing out of the bed that Michael noticed what he was wearing; a bright yellow sweater, one that had been Michael Shelley’s favorite.</p>
<p>The sight was too much. It withdrew, daggers buried in the space that had once housed a heart.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050641">Once again, the companion fic!!</a><br/>It's 100% not required reading, but it is related!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gerry has a very bad day</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, I have another companion piece to this in the works, explaining more about who Gerry &amp; Michael's neighbors are, just because they end up being mildly important a little later in the series, though not too much. I was going to post it at the same time as this chapter but it's getting to be a bit longer than expected?? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I didn't want to wait ages to get this chapter out so i'll probably post that with either chapter 8 or 9, we'll see how it goes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was early as Gerry locked the door to his flat behind him. Outside, the sky was still dark, the sun barely even thinking about starting to rise. He was going to be ridiculously early to work, but Gerry couldn’t stand to spend another second in the cold, empty rooms.</p>
<p>“Gerry? Oh, thank goodness. We’ve been so worried.”</p>
<p>Shit.</p>
<p>Trying to ignore the dread he felt, Gerry turned to face his neighbor. Sam stopped short, worry clear on his face. Gerry knew how he looked – awful. He looked awful. He hadn’t even bothered to put on makeup in days. The dark rings around his eyes were au naturel, now.</p>
<p>“G-Gerry? You look <em>terrible</em>. Is everything alright? We haven’t been able to get ahold of you or Michael for weeks. Lena and Cass are worried sick.”</p>
<p>“I…No.” He didn’t want to say it, but the thought of lying made him feel sick. He took a deep breath, stuffing his hands in his pockets to try to hide how badly they were shaking. “Michael’s dead.”</p>
<p>Gerry couldn’t look Sam in the eye as he said it, couldn’t bear to see the reaction the words caused.</p>
<p>“What? What happened? Can I-“</p>
<p>“I don’t…I don’t know, ok?” He tried to cut off Sam’s babbling questions, taking a step back as he tried to come closer, to comfort him. “They…he went on a work trip and didn’t come back. I still don’t…”</p>
<p>His voice was shaking, tears swimming in his eyes. He made the mistake of finally glancing at Sam; the horror and pity on his face was the worst part, nearly sending the tears spilling over.</p>
<p>“Gerry…I-“</p>
<p>“I have to go,” Gerry blurted out, shoving past him. Sam didn’t call after him, but Gerry could feel his eyes on his back as he walked away.</p>
<p>He cursed, quietly; he’d been avoiding them as much as he could, for this exact reason. Having to see Sam’s reaction was bad enough but thinking about Cass or Lena hearing it was even worse. He should have been more careful, should have paid better attention to the time; he knew when Sam left for work every morning. There was no reason he couldn’t have waited five extra minutes.</p>
<p>It took every ounce of willpower he possessed, but he managed not to cry on the tube on his way to the Institute. It was still early when he got there, even taking his time. He didn’t care. The less people he had to see, the better.</p>
<p>The archives were only marginally more bearable than his empty flat, and all of the memories it contained. At least here, he could cause some chaos, feel like he was inconveniencing Gertrude. It made the pang of seeing Michael’s empty desk tolerable, if only barely.</p>
<p>He wasn’t honestly sure how effective he was being as an inconvenience. Gertrude hadn’t attempted to right any of the mess he’d made so far. She’d barely even spoken to him in the last weeks.</p>
<p>It infuriated him. Maybe it shouldn’t – he was avoiding her as well, after all. But she’d taken Michael, and had the audacity to come back without him, then act like nothing had happened. She hadn’t even had the guts to tell him to his face – she’d left that up to Elias. Even then, Gerry hadn’t had any idea, had only learned the love of his life was dead when he’d <em>asked</em>.</p>
<p>Angrily, he pulled his knife out of his pocket and jabbed the blade into the dark wood paneling of the wall beside the door.</p>
<p>“Gertie doesn’t like eyes in her archives?” He said spitefully as he started to carve. “Well, let’s see her get rid of <em>this</em> one.”</p>
<p>He’d very nearly finished his first carving when Gertrude finally showed up. It was very nice, he thought, with stylized eyelashes and a wonderful amount of detail in the iris.</p>
<p>“Gerard Keay!” She exclaimed angrily as she opened the door. Her tone was a rather unpleasant callback to his childhood, eerily similar to the one his own mother had used nearly every time she had spoken to him. His plan must be working.</p>
<p>“Oh, hello, Gertie. Nice to finally see you,” he said, not bothering to look up from his knife.</p>
<p>“Your childish outbursts have gone far enough, Gerard,” she said, “First, you glue those ridiculous plastic eyes to everything in sight, and now this. You know my feelings on eyes in the Archives. There-“</p>
<p>“Well, I’m sure you can imagine <em>my</em> feelings on having my boyfriend carted off to Russia and not brought back,” Gerry seethed, finally turning to face her. If she was surprised at the declaration of their relationship, she didn’t show it.</p>
<p>“Or, maybe that’s wrong. I can’t imagine you’ve ever cared for anyone other than yourself in your miserable life.”</p>
<p>“That is <em>enough</em>, Gerard.”</p>
<p>“Is it? Is it enough? I looked up where you claimed to be heading – Zemlya Sannikova doesn’t <em>exist</em>. What the hell happened to Michael? What did you <em>do</em>?”</p>
<p>“Michael did what needed to be done,” Gertrude said curtly.</p>
<p>“And how much did you bother to tell him about what he was doing?” He didn’t need to ask the question, not really. He knew how Gertrude operated. Through the anger, he could feel tears gathering in his eyes again.</p>
<p>“He made his choice. It will be easier for you if you accept that and move on.” She sniffed, glaring down the bridge of her nose at him. “I suggest you pull yourself together, Gerard. Elias has asked me to send you up to see him.” Spinning on her heel, she marched into her office. She didn’t slam the door, but the finality with which it shut behind her was unmistakable.</p>
<p>He was almost tempted to follow her, but what else was there to say? Arguing with her wouldn’t bring Michael back. He stood for a moment, kicking at the pile of wood shavings at his feet before walking out of the Archives.</p>
<p>Outside of the door to Elias’s office, he took a moment to glare at the stained-glass eye that decorated it before raising a fist to knock. He stopped and glared some more before opening the door unannounced. It hardly mattered. He was sure the bastard had seen him coming; there wasn’t much that happened in the Institute he <em>didn’t</em> see.</p>
<p>“What do you want,” Gerry said flatly.</p>
<p>“Ah, there you are.” Elias said, looking up from the stack of paperwork on his desk. “Have you been sleeping? You look <em>terrible</em>,” Elias said, the concern in his voice so fake you could make a Barbie out of it.</p>
<p>“Cut the bullshit,” Gerry snapped, “You didn’t call me up here to ask after my health. What. Do. You. Want.”</p>
<p>“Come now, Gerard. The health of my employees is very important to me.”</p>
<p>Gerry didn’t even try not to scoff at that. Elias ignored him, continuing, “But, if you’re insistent on ignoring my concerns over your well being, I have an assignment well suited to your…skills. I thought it might help you to take your mind off of the current events.”</p>
<p>“And why would I help you to do anything?”</p>
<p>“Well, I was rather under the impression that I was the one signing your paychecks. You <em>are</em> an employee of the Magnus Institute, and, while I do appreciate your artistic endeavors, that does entail a <em>bit</em> more than decorating staplers and carving eyes into the walls.”</p>
<p>“Believe me, if I could be anywhere but here, I would be.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come now, Gerard. You came to <em>us</em> for help. You knew the terms of the agreement you were signing. You seemed happy enough with it, at the time.”</p>
<p>Gerry didn’t say anything, quietly seething. He had been desperate – he’d been willing to try just about anything to get rid of the book, the specter of his mother that had haunted him, even if it meant binding himself to the Magnus Institute.</p>
<p>Elias smirked, the expression only infuriating Gerry more. “I’ve heard of one of Leitner’s books, wreaking a bit of havoc in a library nearby. At least three people have disappeared already. I suspect it’s only going to continue growing in power if no one puts a stop to it.”</p>
<p>“And since when have you cared at all about protecting people from the fears? Why not just sit and watch, like you love to do so much?”</p>
<p>Elias sighed, the sarcasm in Gerry’s voice apparently striking some kind of chord. “I am trying to <em>help</em> you, Gerard. I know Michael’s loss has affected you greatly, but you cannot just <em>sit around</em> and let the grief eat you.”</p>
<p>“Alright, fine!” Gerry threw his hands up, trying to keep the pang of sorrow he felt from showing on his face. “I’ll go get your stupid book, just so long as I don’t have to listen to you talk anymore.”</p>
<p>“I knew you’d see sense,” Elias said with a tight smile. “Here you are, the address. So sorry to take away the fun of tracking it down yourself, but I do think it’s rather prudent to have it dealt with as soon as possible.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, whatever,” Gerry grumbled, grabbing the note out of Elias’s hand and slamming the office door behind him.</p>
<p>It occurred to him on the ride over that he hadn’t yet eaten that day. Normally, it wouldn’t bother him, but…when had he last eaten <em>anything</em>? He couldn’t even remember. It was hard to even bring himself to care.</p>
<p>Despite his best efforts, he could ignore the surge of guilt that came with the thought. Michael would have cared. Michael would have forced him to eat something before they left for work, and chided him for trying to drink a coffee and call it breakfast.</p>
<p>He hadn’t even had a coffee that morning.</p>
<p>The train slowed, the doors opening onto his stop. He stepped off with a sigh, following the crowd up to street level.</p>
<p>Michael wasn’t here anymore, but…Michael would have wanted him to eat, at the very least. He would go find the book, destroy it, and then he would go find some food. For Michael.</p>
<p>The library was easy to find, just a short walk from the station. From the outside, it looked perfectly normal, if a little empty.</p>
<p>When Gerry pulled the door open, a wave of fog rolled out, dispersing on the sidewalk outside. He gritted his teeth – the Lonely. Great.</p>
<p>“Hello?” He waded cautiously into the mist, pulling out his knife. His voice was muted, the mist dampening any echo. There was no response, the library silent.</p>
<p>That wasn’t a good sign. Someone must have read the book. He did a perfunctory sweep, but there was no one. Not behind the desk, or at any of the tables. He even checked the bathrooms, to no avail.</p>
<p>The mist clung to him, his footsteps barely audible on the linoleum floor as he walked through it. He could feel the chill even through the leather of his coat. He followed the swirling fog, growing ever thicker as he passed through the towering shelves of books. The lights flickered ominously overhead, and he glared at them, daring them to try something.</p>
<p>He kept his knife at the ready, though he didn’t expect to encounter anything. In the whole way through the library, he hadn’t seen another soul; the Lonely wasn’t really one for avatars or monsters, either, preferring to lure society’s outcasts and allow their insecurities to do all of the work for it.</p>
<p>It was, in Gerry’s opinion, one of the lamest fears. All it took was one good human connection, and the whole thing would come crashing down.</p>
<p>He scanned the main room of the library, but aside from the blanket of mist shifting gently over the floor, nothing appeared out of place.</p>
<p>
  <em>It’s in the basement.</em>
</p>
<p>“Right, okay,” he muttered. He’d learned years ago not to question that little voice, when it chose to speak. He knew what it meant, most likely – he was getting close to the Eye, probably a lot closer than he should be comfortable with. It had, however, saved his ass on a few occasions, so finding a way to get rid of it wasn’t exactly on the top of his list of priorities.</p>
<p>The basement was easy enough to find; it was nearly identical to the main room upstairs, down a flight of stairs in the corner. The mist flowed eagerly down the steps, so thick at the bottom that it rose up to Gerry’s waist.</p>
<p>He found the book lying innocuously on a table in the back of the room. He pitied whoever had been unfortunate enough to pull the book down off of the shelf; he pitied the librarians even more. They’d never even had the choice to avoid opening the book. Maybe they would be able to find their way back out, but Gerry had never held much hope in these situations.</p>
<p>He picked the book up gingerly, turning it over in his hands. It was bound in a blue-gray cloth, well-worn and discolored. There was no title printed on it anywhere. Neither was there that familiar, curling script, the gold embossed text claiming the book as the property of “The Library of Jurgen Leitner.”</p>
<p>The lack of the familiar insignia gave him some pause; Elias had said specifically that he was looking for a Leitner. Was this the right book?</p>
<p>After a moment’s hesitation, he opened the front cover; he would rather be sure, before he got out of there. He didn’t relish the idea of being wrong and having to go back.</p>
<p>There was no book plate on the inside of the cover, either. With a frown, he flipped the page.</p>
<p>The page that would have normally housed the title and author was blank, as well. Maybe this <em>wasn’t</em> the book; he’d never heard of a <em>blank</em> Leitner, and he had heard of <em>many</em>.</p>
<p><em><strong>Maybe</strong> you should consider stopping</em>, that little voice warned, though it felt distant, now. He ignored it, turning another page.</p>
<p>He barely noticed the mist as it crowded closer, curling over his shoulders and flowing down his arms. He turned the next page, and another. Each one was as blank as the last. He knew he should stop, drop the book, burn it right then and there.</p>
<p>He couldn’t bring himself to care.</p>
<p>If this <em>was</em> a Leitner, who would even notice, if it got him? Who would care? He flipped another page, still looking for words that didn’t exist as the mist curled up his neck, weaving itself into his hair.</p>
<p>The book fell to the ground, the fog clearing from the room with the impact.</p>
<p>Gerard Keay was gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Michael lies to itself about the people who were important to Michael Shelley</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In light of Recent Fandom Discourse TeeEm, I would like to go ahead and state that, regardless of what conclusions people draw from the vague and borderline nonsensical canon timeline we have been provided, in this AU Gerry and Michael are the same age.</p><p>I could go on about how this ship is not actually all that problematic, especially compared to others in this fandom, but honestly if you're here right now I'm pretty sure I don't need to explain that to you</p><p>Hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks for sticking with me, and this fic &lt;3</p><p>Small edit: I said last chapter that I would be posting a fic explaining their neighbors more, and it's finally up! Partially! It got a biiit longer than I was planning (cough 10,000 words cough) but <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674677/chapters/59627650">here it is!</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At what point do you realize you are no longer feeling something you have been trying desperately to ignore?</p><p>For Michael, there was no grand moment of awareness, no sudden burst of realization. It was gradual, a slow building to an all-consuming worry; a gnawing anxiety that had never plagued the Distortion before it had become Michael.</p><p>It took it far longer than it perhaps should have to pinpoint the exact cause of the disquiet. There was, after all, no reason for it. The corridors were sated, fear permeating every metre, its guilt at the acquisition squashed down until an unsteady silence reigned.</p><p>Silence <em>was</em> the cause, in the end. So accustomed was it to that inescapable buzzing at the back of its mind, the knowledge of Gerard Keay, of where he was and what he was doing, that to be without it made it almost hard to think.</p><p>It should have been overjoyed. It certainly tried to be. But ignoring the absence of Gerard Keay proved to be much harder than ignoring his presence, and so, against its better judgement, Michael went looking for him.</p><p>Desperation was highly unbecoming. It was not desperate in its searching - it had no reason to be, no real cause to care about the fate of one puny human among millions. The absence of one man would not affect it in the slightest; perhaps, if it managed to find him, it would bring about that absence itself.</p><p>In another life, The Magnus Institute would have been the first place to examine. But Michael could not see within, thanks to the Archivist, and it refused to open a door into it. It would not give her the satisfaction of knowing whether she could have blocked its attempts. Gerry could not spend <em>all</em> of his time at the Institute; eventually, he would have to leave the circle of her protections.</p><p>Instead, it spent two whole days waiting in the flat they had once shared. After the first 12 hours, it grew bored of lurking in the doorway, piling itself onto the sofa in a vague imitation of a human form, though it could not have said why it bothered.</p><p>Had Gerry walked through the door then, or in any of the hours following, it did not know what it would have done. Perhaps it would have killed him, get rid of the source of this worry, these feelings that twisted and writhed like so many strands of barbed wire.</p><p>All too soon its thoughts turned instead to the thought of his hands, of taking them in its own, of fingers running through soft hair and lazy mornings in bed. It hissed in irritation, scoring deep furrows into the cushions as it reminded itself of the eyes inked onto those same hands, the master they served.</p><p>Michael left the couch a shredded mess, and instead took to leaving doors in the places Gerry had once frequented. Their favorite coffee shops. The dingy alleyway near the institute, where he would burn the books he and the Archivist deemed too dangerous for even Artefact Storage. The park where he and Michael Shelley had their first real date.</p><p>Weeks passed in this manner, and still no sign of Gerard Keay. Michael tried to convince itself that it wasn’t bothered. <em>This was all for the best</em>, it lied as it watched the man that had been their landlord empty out objects that had once seemed to matter from a flat that had never belonged to either of them.</p><p>Perhaps it did steal away Gerry’s sketchbook, a few of his favorite shirts. But, there was no sentimental value to them. They were tools, nothing more, saved to confound the person foolish enough to go hunting after Gerard Keay.</p><p>If it happened to also take the landlord, well. No one would <em>really</em> miss him.</p><p>Eventually, after months of searching, Michael stopped. It was possible, of course, that Gerard had found out about it, had found a way to hide from it.</p><p>But that did not sound like the Gerry Michael had known.</p><p>No. Gerard Keay was dead.</p><p>It did not feel the anguish this realization caused it. It would not allow itself to. Gerard Keay was gone. Michael Shelley was gone. All that remained was Michael, and its endless, maddening corridors.</p><p>If it still happened to leave its doors in the coffee shop, or those well-hidden alleyways, well. That wasn’t hope, for the Distortion had no cause for such things.</p><p>No. It was simply practical. A means to an end, a good meal. Much like the couple he was seated next to, in this park. They couldn’t remember inviting it along, but they must have, right? After all, it was there, pretending to eat a sandwich they weren’t sure they had made for it.</p><p>It was bored with them, their confusion as bland as the potato salad they had made. It shoved the bowl off of the table with one long, slender finger, the hard plastic clattering loudly to the ground. The couple ignored it, resolutely refusing to look up from the food directly in front of them, and Michael sighed, frustrated with their artificial apathy.</p><p>It looked to the Magnus institute, instead. It was an irritating habit, one it had never managed to break itself of after Gerry’s disappearance. Normally, it yielded nothing, save for a surge of its own annoyance.</p><p>This time was different.</p><p>Where there used to be a blank void, there was now a basement, filled with shelves upon shelves of paper and folders. It could see into the Archives, though not clearly – ironically enough, the presence of the Ceaseless Watcher distorted its view.</p><p>A laugh pulled itself from its throat at the thought, and the couple beside it winced in pain. Michael took the opportunity to savor their fear, if only for a moment. As the sound faded, it stood, abandoning the shredded remains of its sandwich, and walked through a door.</p><p>The Archives were not at all as Michael had left them. Michael Shelley had been meticulous in his organization, almost to the point of obsession. The room it stood in now was a disaster, papers and file folders littering the floor. The smell was different, too – not the musty, old smell of aging paper, but the pungent stench of petrol.</p><p>Something glistened on the floor, a trail of crimson reflecting the light of the dim incandescent bulbs overhead.</p><p>“Oh, Archivist, <em>what</em> were you doing down here?” Michael giggled, delicately pulling a file folder down off of the shelf, shredding it as he followed the trail.</p><p>A square of flooring, offset just barely enough to be nearly unnoticeable, marked the start of it. A trapdoor. Michael Shelley had known of no such thing – perhaps it might be worth investigating, another day.</p><p>It hummed quietly, following the trail back towards the office. It led past the desk where Michael had once worked so diligently, standing empty now, coated in a thick layer of dust. All of the assistant’s desks were. The implications were not lost on Michael, though it pretended not to see them.</p><p>The Archivist’s office had fared no better than the rest of the Archives. Blood pooled across the surface of the desk, dripping off the edge and splashing quietly to the floor. Michael ran a finger through it, appraising the drying liquid.</p><p>“Oh, Archivist,” he sighed, flicking it off to spatter against the wall.</p><p>It wondered if it had hurt, when Gertrude had died. It hoped that it had.</p><p>Michael considered, briefly, staying longer, destroying more statements. But it could feel the gaze of the Ceaseless Watcher, staring at it, cataloguing, breaking it down into little pieces to better <em>understand</em>. It did not stay. There was nothing here for it; there had not been for a long time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Honestly editing this chapter kicked my ass and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I'm tired of looking at it. </p><p>There does exist a <a href="https://discord.gg/3FcPyQf">gerrymichael discord server!!</a> We're not super active, but you're welcome to come chill with us</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gerry in the lonely; worms in the Archives</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for Prentiss Worms ahead; nothing terribly graphic or violent, they're just there, wriggling in a threatening manner</p><p>"Bog, are you aware that it's been 3 1/2 weeks since you last updated???" Yes, please don't yell at me</p><p>Anyways, do you recall two chapters ago when I said I was writing a companion piece to tell a bit more about Gerry and Michael's neighbors?? Well, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674677/chapters/59627650">it's done!!!!</a> It's also 10,000 words (exactly!! Wow!!!) Because I apparently don't know when to stop. You don't <em>have</em> to read it to understand this story, it's just there in case you want to know more about their neighbors.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Gerry noticed was the temperature. It was cold, and just damp enough to be uncomfortable. He could hear a rushing sound in the distance, though he couldn’t place what it could be. It was hard to think; trying to hold on to any one thought was like trying to pick up water.</p><p>Water…Waves? Was that the sound he was hearing?</p><p>He was lying on his back, the sharp points of gravel rocks digging into the back of his coat. Gerry stared up into the fog, thick and blindingly bright, listening to the distant rushing of water. He wasn’t sure where he was, not really. Something about the place nagged at him; it felt important, but he couldn’t bring himself to try to figure out why.</p><p>Eventually, he forced himself to sit up. He thought it had been a while since he had last moved, though it was hard to tell. How long had he been here? It can’t have been that long; he wasn’t even hungry.</p><p>Hadn’t he been hungry, before he had gotten here? How…how <em>had</em> he gotten here? Where even <em>was</em> here? He rubbed at his temples, trying to get his thoughts to stay still enough long enough for him to process them. Everything was fuzzy, as though this stupid fog had invaded his skull. He shut his eyes against it.</p><p>He was alone, of that much he was certain. Alone…the word <em>meant</em> something; he knew it did. Gerry shook his head, frustrated.</p><p>“Alone.” He said aloud, hoping to jog his memory. “Alone? Al…Lonely?” The word dragged up…something, faint and faded and barely there. He clung to the thought desperately, hoping for a clue.</p><p>A foggy library, an old book. Blank pages in a faded blue-grey binding.</p><p>Not just lonely. <em>The</em> Lonely.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He needed to get out of here. Gerry looked around, climbing to his feet. He couldn’t see very far. The fog refused to part, despite its constant swirling and shifting. Choosing a direction, he began to walk, stones crunching underfoot with every step.</p><p>It felt like he walked for an eternity – or maybe it was no time at all. He had no way to gauge the time. The waves sounded just as distant as they had when he started, still crashing rhythmically on some far shore.</p><p>“Hello?” he called out eventually. No one answered, the sound dampened by the thick cloud of white that surrounded him.</p><p>He stopped walking. Where had he been going? Gerry frowned, trying to remember. He had been going…Out? He sat down, wishing that he had something other than the ground to sit on. This gravel wasn’t very comfortable, the leather of his jacket providing barely any padding against the sharp points.</p><p>“Out?” He mused quietly, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Why was I going out?” He was here, after all. There must be a reason for him being here, something to be done. He just had to figure out what it was.</p><p>Where was here, again?</p><p>He picked up one of the stones on the ground by his feet, turning it over in his hands idly. The eyes inked onto his hands jogged a memory, faint and not quite there. He stared at them, gripping the rock so tightly his knuckles turned white.</p><p>He stood, pacing as he tried to drag the memory to the forefront. Eyes, why were eyes important? Dusty desks, scattered papers, dark wood paneling. A stained-glass window…the Institute! The Magnus Institute.</p><p>Gerry gasped aloud. “Michael!” He cried out. How could he have forgotten? He had to get out of here, get back to…</p><p>To Michael…</p><p>Michael was <em>gone</em>, he remembered suddenly. A wave of grief rolled over him, the first thing he had felt, <em>really</em> felt, in a long time. It <em>hurt</em>, his heart constricting in his chest. He wrapped his arms around himself, choking out a sob.</p><p>He sank to the ground, shutting his eyes against the blinding whiteness that surrounded him. He couldn’t tell if the chill he felt down to his very bones was from this place, or a result of his own grief. Did it even matter?  Why even bother trying to get out? What was even waiting for him, outside of here?</p><p>It hurt, still, but it was…muted, like everything else in this place. Maybe he <em>should</em> stay here, where he didn’t have to feel. He would be alone, but hadn’t he always been?</p><p>No. No. He dug his fingers into his hair, letting out a frustrated groan. That was this place talking. That’s what the Lonely <em>was</em>, what it <em>did</em>.</p><p>Gerry couldn’t…he <em>knew</em> how to get out of here. He had to. He couldn’t remember, the fog pressing closer, muffling everything – his thoughts, the pain of the gravel pressing against his knees, the edges of himself.</p><p>What was it…what had he said? One good human connection.</p><p>Michael! Michael was his…</p><p>He curled himself into a ball, resting his head on his knees. Michael was gone. Michael was gone, but he wasn’t alone, right? He tried to ignore the chill, the rushing of the waves.</p><p>It hadn’t just been Michael. There were others. There <em>had</em> to be. Gertrude… No. Gertrude didn’t care. Neither did Elias.</p><p>It was hard to focus, hard to think. But he had to – he knew Michael would want him to try, to get out of there. He could feel the mist calling to him, crying for him to give in, to stay. He could feel it, in the emptiness deep in his chest. It wanted him here, alone.</p><p>He wasn’t alone. He just had to…</p><p>His fingers brushed against the scars on his hand, the raised bumps and ridges of what had once been stitches, carefully applied by hands with years of practice. He gasped, feeling actual air in his lungs for the first time in what felt like ages.</p><p>Mrs. Hartford – dear, old Mrs. Hartford, who had baked them cakes and stitched up his hand when he’d been stupid enough to stumble home still bleeding.</p><p>The fog drew back slightly, and he stumbled to his feet, running over the scars with shaking fingers.</p><p>Just that morning – had it been that morning? He wasn’t sure, anymore. Sam. Sam had been worried. And Cass, and Lena. They had been looking for him.</p><p>He clenched his fists. “I am <em>not</em> alone,” he hissed.</p><p>All at once, he realized that, instead of the crashing of distant waves, he heard instead a quiet buzzing. It was still bright, but…</p><p>“Gerard?”</p><p>Gerry looked around, blinking in the light. The fog and gravel were gone, replaced with the familiar dark wooden paneling and uselessly ornate bookshelves of the office of Elias Bouchard.</p><p>“How the hell did I get here?” He asked the man himself, staring at him from his desk chair. It was a different chair than the one he remembered, he noticed dimly. It wasn’t new, though. Odd, that he would buy a used chair.</p><p>“I could ask you the same question,” Elias said, brow furrowed. Gerry crouched down, picking up the book that lay open at his feet. “Do you have any idea how-“</p><p>The rest of Elias’s statement was cut off by the shrill wailing of the fire alarm.</p><p>“Oh, what <em>now</em>?” Elias huffed, standing and striding over to the door.</p><p>Gerry looked at the book in his hands; it was the same faded blue cloth, the same empty pages. What had it been doing in Elias’s office?</p><p>He shut the book with a <em>snap</em>, tucking it into one of his many coat pockets. There would be time to figure that out – and burn the book – later. With a grimace, he shook his head, trying to clear it; he could still feel the fog, clouding his thoughts.</p><p>Elias was had stopped in the hall outside of his office when Gerry joined him, looking down the hall towards the stairwell as though he was waiting for something. He probably was, the bastard. “What’s going on?”</p><p>“You have about as much of an idea as I do,” Elias said.</p><p>“Bullshit,” Gerry began to say, but was interrupted as a woman burst through the stairwell door, panic written all over her face as she ran to them.</p><p>“Elias!” She cried out, practically colliding with them. Gerry reached out, trying to steady her. She had something clutched in her fist – a tape recorder? “The – the Archives! Jane Prentiss! The worms!”</p><p>“Calm down, Sasha. Take a deep breath,” Elias tried to calm her, but she paid him no mind, still trying to catch her breath and tell her story at the same time.</p><p>“Jon and I – he was trying to kill a spider! But the fire extinguisher – it broke through the wall and the worms came pouring out!” The woman – Sasha - grabbed Elias’s arm, tight enough to cause him obvious discomfort. “They’ve been living in the walls!”</p><p>“The worms?” Elias asked skeptically, “The same ones that Jon and Martin have been going on about for months?”</p><p>Gerry stared, trying to follow the conversation. Worms? For months? What was Elias talking about? The institute hadn’t been having any problems with worms, not that he was aware of. Surely, he would have heard about some kind of infestation.</p><p>“Yes! The ones that have been terrorizing the Archives!” Sasha said passionately, gesturing back towards the stairwell.</p><p>“I don’t know if “terrorizing” is the right word, Sasha. Sure, some other staff have seen them, but they’ve hardly been aggressive.” Elias’s patronizing tone would have made him angry, if Gerry wasn’t already so damn confused. Worms? In the Archives? There <em>definitely</em> hadn’t been any worms in the Archives when he’d left that morning.</p><p>Gerry’s head was starting to hurt. Or maybe it had already been hurting. He really wasn’t sure anymore. He stepped forwards with a small wave. “Hi, could someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”</p><p>“Jane Prentiss is <em>here</em>, Elias! I <em>saw</em> her!” Sasha ignored his question, not taking her eyes off of Elias. “Tim and the others could be <em>dead</em>, and you’re just – I just watched thousands of murder worms pour out of the wall! I’ve <em>seen</em> what they can do, Elias!”</p><p>Elias sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you’re <em>sure</em> it was her?”
</p><p>Even without the slightest idea of what was going on, Gerry had to stare at Elias in disbelief. Sasha looked at him for the first time, her expression conveying more incredulity and anger than any words could.</p><p>“Right. Point taken.” Elias said, making a face. He looked annoyed, as though this was a delayed lunch hour, and not something that was apparently threatening the lives of his staff. “Well, since the fire alarm has effectively removed all staff from the building, we’ll have to take care of the problem ourselves.”</p><p>“Elias, there are <em>thousands</em> of worms down there.” Sasha said. Worms…<em>Sounds like a corruption attack</em>, Gerry thought. He tried to suppress a shudder. He hated the corruption.
</p><p>“So you’ve said. But, you’ll remember that I had a CO₂ fire suppression system installed at Jon’s insistence.” Elias said, walking briskly down the hall. For lack of anything better to do, Gerry followed behind.<em> It sure would be nice if someone would tell me what was going on</em>, he wanted to say, but didn’t bother asking again. He knew he wouldn’t get an answer.</p><p>“But it hasn’t gone off. I pulled the alarm but – oh. No fire.” Sasha said.</p><p>“Do you need me to start one?” Gerry offered helpfully.</p><p>“I would much prefer you didn’t,” Elias said tightly, glaring pointedly at him. “There’s a manual release a few floors down.”</p><p>“But, Jon and the others – won’t that hurt them?” Sasha asked.</p><p>“I’m not a doctor, but I am reasonably certain that dumping CO₂ on people is not particularly good for them,” Elias said.</p><p>“Would it be worse than ‘Murder worms’?” Gerry asked with a sympathetic look. He may not know this Jane Prentiss, but he’d seen enough of the corruption’s handiwork that he didn’t think he needed to.</p><p>Sasha fell silent, and they followed Elias as he pushed through the door and onto the stairs beyond.</p><p>The stairwell was quiet, the clang of their footsteps on the metal stairs echoing loudly. “The manual release lever is in the electrical room, two floors down,” Elias began to say.</p><p>He was interrupted by a loud bang as the door on the next landing slammed open. A wet, writhing mass of worms poured through, pressing up against the walls and falling down the stairs. They moved with alarming speed, wriggling over each other and up towards them.</p><p>Sasha let out a shriek, and Gerry would be lying if he said he managed to keep quiet. They stumbled back up the steps, practically falling through the door on the landing they had just passed.</p><p>The hall outside was not much better; Gerry could see another wave of worms, rounding the corner at the end of the hall. They moved like a slimy, pulsating wave, crawling towards them with a single-minded determination.</p><p>“In here!” Sasha cried, grabbing his arm and yanking him through a door. He kicked it closed as he passed through it, the heavy metal slamming shut with a reassuring <em>clang</em>. They backed away, barely breathing, waiting for it to give.</p><p>After a few moments of silence, they relaxed slightly. Sasha gasped quietly, her hand flying up to her mouth. “Where’s Elias?”</p><p>Gerry snorted. “Who cares? Bastard.” Death by Corruption worms would be too good for him, in Gerry’s humble opinion. He glanced around the room. “Ugh, Artefact Storage. I’ve always hated this place.”</p><p>“Tell me about it,” Sasha said, grabbing a fire extinguisher from its hook by the door. “I used to <em>work</em> in here.”</p><p>Gerry made a face as he wandered a few steps further into the room. “I don’t envy you.”</p><p>“I should have asked them to transfer me sooner,” She said with a grimace. “Sasha James, by the way.”</p><p>“Gerry Keay. What’s with the fire extinguisher?” He supposed it would make sense, if she was using it to smash worms. But Elias had also mentioned the fire suppression system, earlier, and there were more effective methods of squashing worms than trying to hit them with a fire extinguisher.</p><p>“The CO₂ kills them.” She said, matter-of-factly. She was looking at him strangely, as though trying to remember who he was. Gerry pretended not to notice; maybe if he kept her answering his questions, she’d forget about whatever she was connecting his name to and move on.</p><p>And he had many questions; where the worms had come from, how they had figured out how to kill them. And, perhaps the most pressing: “Did you say you work in the Archives, now?”</p><p>“Yep. Though, I’m not sure it’s much better, given the, uh,” she gestured to the door, grimacing, “current circumstances.”</p><p>“Hate to break it to you, but you haven’t dodged much of a bullet, there.” He paused for a moment, trying to think as he stared at a rusty chair that had been bolted to the floor. It was fading, slowly, but he could still feel the effects of the lonely, his thoughts slippery and hard to hold onto. Something wasn’t quite adding up, here. “Nobody told me we were getting a new transfer. Did Gertrude really forget about me so soon? I’m hurt.”</p><p>She didn’t respond straight away, and Gerry looked up to find her staring at him, looking as confused as he felt.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Gertrude’s dead.”</p><p>Gerry stared, trying to process what she had just said. “Gertrude’s dead,” He repeated.</p><p>“She’s been dead for over a year, Gerry.” </p><p>He felt his stomach drop at the words, a heavy feeling of dread taking its place. “Wh…” He swallowed thickly. “What date is it?”</p><p>“July 29th.” She set the fire extinguisher down, walking a few steps closer to him.</p><p>“…Year?” He asked quietly.</p><p>“2016. Are you ok? You look a bit pale.” She moved to grab his arm, and he grabbed onto her forearm, probably tighter than was comfortable, though she didn’t complain. “Gerry?”</p><p>“I…” He started to say, but faltered, staring at her.</p><p>Six years. He had been in the Lonely for six years? He didn’t even know what to think, let alone what to begin to say. <em>Six years?</em></p><p>He took a deep breath, dropping his gaze to the floor as he focused on staying on his feet. Now was not the time to freak out. <em>There are more important things to deal with right now</em>, he told himself sternly. Like the worms, probably looking for a way under the only door to this room. He could worry about lost time later.</p><p>“Who’s there?” Sasha cried out sharply, looking over his shoulder. “I see you!”</p><p>With a start, he turned, following her gaze. “What?”</p><p>At the end of the room, something lurked, perched atop a large wooden table. It was long and angular, limbs bending painfully at too many joints. It tilted its head back and forth as though listening. It made no sound, but launched itself forwards, bounding towards them.</p><p>Gerry grabbed Sasha’s hand, jerking her back towards the door. “Run!”</p><p>“The worms!” She cried, snatching the fire extinguisher as she stumbled past it.</p><p>“We’ll have to take our chances!” Gerry shouted, jerking the door open. The thing shrieked behind them, pure rage. Gerry didn’t look back, didn’t let go of Sasha’s hand. Worms still littered the hall outside, and he put extra force into his steps, crushing them underfoot.</p><p>Worms squirmed towards them from every direction, but Gerry didn’t stop. Sasha pulled her hand away, and Gerry could see her fiddling with the fire extinguisher, pulling the pin before unleashing a cloud of gas on the worms in front of them. They shriveled and died, crunching horribly beneath Gerry’s boots as he ran.</p><p>The main stairwell was blessedly clear of the things. Sasha ditched the now-empty fire extinguisher, the canister hitting the ground with a clang as they hurried down the steps. Gerry could see the exit as they rounded the corner onto the last flight of steps, light pouring through the windows of the front doors at the end of the corridor.</p><p>He’d just begun to believe they’d make it out alive when a loud wail pierced the air. Lights flashed as gas began to pour out of a pipe overhead. Gerry faltered as the cloud surrounded him, a chill gripping his bones, breath coming in ragged gasps as the distant sound of crashing waves reached his ears.</p><p>Sasha grabbed his had as she passed, her shirt pulled up over her mouth. “Come on! We’re almost there!”</p><p>The contact jerked him back to reality with a start, and he nearly tripped. Gerry kept running, ignoring the burning in his lungs as he tried not to breathe in the gas surrounding them. Moments later, they were at the doors, throwing themselves against them so hard that they fell onto the sidewalk outside, clouds of CO₂ spilling onto the ground around them.</p><p>Gerry was on his feet immediately, pulling Sasha up and dragging her back as he hacked out a cough.</p><p>Nothing followed them out, and Gerry relaxed, if only slightly.</p><p>“What…was that?” Sasha asked quietly.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he said as they were swarmed by a crowd of heavily suited medical personnel, dragging them away from the doors and towards the flashing lights of the waiting ambulances.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(dabs) longest chapter so far, awww yeah</p><p>Gerry, I am so sorry </p><p>Anyways, do you ever look at the outline you've created and realize you're going to be writing said fic for at least the next year of your life??? Because that's where I'm at right now</p><p>Thanks so much for reading!! Hope you're enjoying the story so far</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>How does one cope with the realization that they've lost 6  whole years of their life? (Spoilers: They don't)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For all of the fuss the paramedics had made when Gerry and Sasha had come out of the Institute, Gerry really had expected them to take a lot longer with them. In actuality, they had just given him a quick once-over and, upon seeing that he apparently had no signs of worm wounds, sent him on his way.</p>
<p>That wasn’t to say that the emergency teams had gone. Not long after Gerry and Sasha came bursting out though the front doors, a group had been dispatched inside to look for survivors. They’d found two, a pair of men that Gerry had never met, unconscious and bleeding.</p>
<p>Sasha, at least, had been relieved to see them, running off to grill the paramedics with questions and leaving Gerry all on his own. Not that he minded; he had a lot to process. If he was being honest, he had no idea where to even begin.</p>
<p>People were treating him as much of a ghost as he felt, standing there watching the hustle and bustle. The police had barely even looked at him, and he hadn’t been asked to give a statement. Of course, he had no way of knowing whether it was because of him, or because they rarely bothered doing proper investigations into the institute.</p>
<p>Either way, he felt decidedly unseen, people’s eyes sliding past him as though he wasn’t there. He couldn’t decide whether to be offended or relieved.</p>
<p>Gerry hung around the ambulances for a short while, but there really wasn’t anything he could do to help, and he had…quite a few questions, to put it lightly.</p>
<p>He found Elias arguing with a someone – a fireman, from the looks of their equipment – in front of the Institute’s steps. Something about the dangers of installing a full-building CO₂ fire suppression system, it sounded like. Gerry briefly considered waiting for them to finish their argument, but decided against it. He was too tired for patience or politeness at the moment.</p>
<p>“Elias,” he said, walking up to stand beside him. The fireman jumped, having apparently not seen his approach. Definitely after-effects of the lonely diverting people’s attention from him, then; Gerry couldn’t bring himself to care.</p>
<p>“Ah, Gerard,” Elias said, before turning back to the man he had been speaking to. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I must take care of my employees, you understand.”</p>
<p>The man sighed, defeated. “Come find me when you’re finished,” he said, throwing his arms up in frustration as he turned back to the truck parked at the curb.</p>
<p>Gerry barely waited for him to get out of earshot. “What the fuck happened?” He asked, as calmly as he was able.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that,” Elias said patiently. “Quite a bit has been going on, recently.”</p>
<p>“Six years?” Gerry asked.</p>
<p>“Apparently so.”</p>
<p>His calm demeanor was absolutely infuriating. “What was that book doing in your office?” Gerry demanded.</p>
<p>“I haven’t the slightest idea. Contrary to what you and Gertrude may have believed, I can’t know everything.”</p>
<p>“You knew what you were sending me into, though.” Gerry couldn’t help the accusation that crept into the words. He wondered if he was being unfair, blaming Elias for his time spent trapped.</p>
<p>“Well, I suppose you will have to forgive me for sending you to do one of the jobs I had hired you for; apparently I was mistaken to believe that you could handle it.” Gerry narrowed his eyes at Elias’s patronizing tone; he was not, he decided, being too hard on him at all. “Please believe me, if I had known where you had ended up, I would have done everything in my power to get you back.”</p>
<p>Gerry didn’t know what to say to that; there were many things he <em>wanted</em> to say, of course. That there was no way he <em>couldn’t</em> have known what had happened; that he should have noticed an active Leitner appearing on the shelf behind his head. None of it would have made any difference – Elias hadn’t done anything to help. He couldn’t get that time back.</p>
<p>“How did she die?” He asked instead, because somehow, thinking about Gertrude was easier.</p>
<p>“We…don’t know,” Elias said, and something about it – the pause, the subtle shift in his tone, thy way he shifted to clasp his hands behind his back – made Gerry absolutely certain Elias was lying to him. He was a good liar, but even he had tells. “She went missing one day; the only trace of her was blood on her desk. We still haven’t found any other sign of her, but authorities tell me that, based on the amount of blood they found, it’s highly unlikely that she’s still alive.”</p>
<p>“Right,” Gerry said, suddenly exhausted. He had more questions but, honestly? He couldn’t care, not right now. It felt like the entirety of the last six years had caught up to him in a rush; he swayed on his feet slightly, dizzy and vaguely nauseous.</p>
<p>“You look like you could use some rest,” Elias said, reaching out a steadying hand. Gerry shrugged it off immediately; his sympathy was so fake he could practically taste it.</p>
<p>Gerry snorted out a laugh. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to part with six years’ worth of back pay.”</p>
<p>Elias made a face, something caught between a grimace and a comforting smile. “I’m afraid we don’t have the budget for that. And, unfortunate as your circumstances may have been, you were not actively doing work for the institute during that time.”</p>
<p>“Figures,” Gerry said. “I’m going to need an advance on my next paycheck, then. I doubt my bank account will let me back in without some struggle.”</p>
<p>“So, you’ll be returning to work with us, then?”</p>
<p>Gerry glared at him. “It’s not like I have a choice.”</p>
<p>“Quite,” Elias said, switching neatly into business mode. “I believe I still have a copy of your employment paperwork in a cabinet, so you won’t need to fill that out again.”</p>
<p>“Great,” Gerry said dryly.</p>
<p>“I was planning on giving all of our Archives staff a few weeks off to recover from this whole…event,” Elias said, gesturing vaguely towards the Institute and the flashing lights in front of it. “The same courtesy will, of course, be extended to you. I’m sure you’ll need some time to recover and sort out being, well, not dead.”</p>
<p>A burst of commotion drew their attention back towards the institute, where another man came stumbling out of the front doors. He was immediately swarmed by a crowd of hazmat suits. Gerry hadn’t managed to get a good look at him, but judging by Sasha’s excited shout of “Martin!” it likely wasn’t anyone he would have known, anyways.</p>
<p>“I suppose I should go see to the rest of my employees,” Elias said. “If you come back tomorrow, I should be able to have that advance ready for you.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Gerry said absently. He turned to leave, only to be interrupted by Elias once more.</p>
<p>“Oh! I had forgotten – you’ll have to forgive me, it’s been quite a while – a family came looking for you, not long after I saw you last. I believe they said they were your neighbors? They gave me something to pass onto it; I still have it; I can get it to you with your advance tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Great. Thanks,” Gerry choked out, trying desperately to hide the pain he felt as he realized who the family likely was. Elias smiled brightly at him, before turning to walk briskly towards the ambulances.</p>
<p>Quietly, Gerry watched him go. He turned and walked away; he wasn’t sure where, exactly, he was planning on going. He had <em>some</em> cash on him – he should probably find something to eat, considering that it had been over six years since he had last done so. Probably, it should worry him that he wasn’t hungry in the slightest.</p>
<p>It was incredible, how much the area around the institute had changed, and how much had stayed the same. The coffee shop he had always stopped at on his way in was still there; his favorite sandwich shop across the street was gone. Gerry paused his wandering in front of a store, startled as he caught sight of his reflection, showing faintly in the glass.</p>
<p>His hair was much longer than he remembered – not surprising, he supposed. It was <em>white</em> now, though. Not all of the way through – the ends were still black, but the roots, even his eyebrows, shone like snow in the fading afternoon sun.
</p><p>He stared at himself for a few moments more, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, then swore quietly. Fine. Hair dye, then. He’d get food, if only to keep himself from collapsing, and a box of black dye. Then he’d go to the only place he knew would still be waiting for him, and use it.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_______</p>
</div><p>Pinhole books.</p>
<p>It was still there, the dark wooden doorway with its nondescript sign looking exactly as he’d left it, all of those years ago.</p>
<p>He didn’t particularly want to stay there. But, unless its current occupants happened to be fond of decorating their front door with decade-old flyers, it was likely still empty. If it was empty, it meant his mother’s protections were still holding. It would be safe, and he didn’t have the money for a hotel room, anyways.</p>
<p>Even still, it was a few minutes longer before he was finally able to convince himself to  pull the spare key from its hidden spot in the doorframe and open the door, the sound of the unoiled hinges sending a shiver down his spine. He half expected to find her waiting for him, for her spectre to come storming out of her office and demand to know where he’d been.</p>
<p>She didn’t. The place was as silent and empty as the last time he’d been there, when he’d taken the skin book to the Institute and locked the door behind him, convinced he was finally leaving for good.</p>
<p>The worn wooden stairs still creaked in all of the same places as he crept up them, hating how tense he was. “She’s <em>gone</em>,” he reminded himself as he reached the top of the stairs. The words weren’t as comforting as he had hoped. “She can’t…she’s gone. It’s just a flat.”</p>
<p>He paused outside of her office. From the doorway, he could see that it was just as cluttered as it had ever been. Bookshelves still lined the walls, packed to bursting. Despite the darkness, the same tangle of fishing line still glimmered faintly on her desk. Viciously, he kicked away the pile of books that had been serving as the office’s doorstop, slamming the door closed. That was one room he didn’t want to have to deal with, not tonight.</p>
<p>Eventually he would need to go in there, he knew. The protections his mother had put on this place had been strong, but it had been years since they were last maintained. He wasn’t even sure what, exactly, she had done. He could only hope that she had kept some sort of notes, and that he wouldn’t be forced to start over from scratch.</p>
<p>He’d forgotten just how many books were here, dusty shelves lining both sides of the hallway. Still more towering stacks cluttered the floor, covering nearly every possible bit of spare space and making passage nearly impossible. Despite his best efforts, he knocked over at least one stack on his way past. He left them where they’d fallen; they were just yet another problem to be dealt with on another day.</p>
<p>They were all mundane, harmless bits of paper and ink. Gerry had made sure of <em>that</em>¸ before he’d left.</p>
<p>He stopped in the living room, shoving papers off of the coffee table before setting his takeout down. He would sleep on the couch – he didn’t want to see the rest of the flat tonight, his old room. His mother’s room. They, too, could wait, at least until he’d managed to get some sleep – or until daylight was coming in through the small windows. Whichever happened first.</p>
<p>Taking the box of cheap dye he’d bought, he flipped on the light switch in the bathroom. It switched on, much to his surprise. Whatever made this place mostly unnoticeable to passers-by must apply to the utility companies, as well. He wished he’d known that was possible earlier; it could have saved him quite a bit of money.</p>
<p>For the first time, he took a proper look at himself. The face looking back at him from the mirror was barely even recognizable, worn down by grief and exhaustion. His eyes were the strangest part; instead of the dark brown-almost-black he was used to, they were a gray so pale that it almost looked as though they had no color at all.</p>
<p>His hair had been a shock, reflected in the shop window; it was little better now. Pure white at the roots, it faded into silver in the middle before ending at the black he was used to. He wondered if it would continue to grow white, or if it would return to its usual blonde, now that he was out of the book.</p>
<p>There was so much, he wasn’t actually sure he had enough dye to cover it. How had he not noticed it getting so long? His time in the lonely had felt – well, not <em>short</em>, but if he had to put a time to it, he would have said two weeks, <em>tops</em>. He sighed, rummaging through the bathroom cabinets. He had his old dye kit laid out on the counter in moments, the motions practically second nature.</p>
<p>It wasn’t until he had pulled on a pair of gloves that he froze, gripping the edges of the sink so tightly it hurt.</p>
<p>A wave of memories flooded his thoughts – another bathroom, brightly lit. Gentle hands, more meticulous in their efforts than he could ever have bothered to be. Quiet laughter, gentle kisses. Michael.</p>
<p>Gerry covered his mouth with his hand, biting back a sob as the loss struck him again, just as painfully as when he’d first gotten the news.</p>
<p>He choked out a bitter laugh; six years, now, Michael had been gone, and he was no closer to moving on than he had been the last time he had left their shared flat. He didn’t even know what had <em>happened</em>, why Michael had never come home. He suspected he never would - if it would have been hard to find out before, it would be nearly impossible, now.</p>
<p>Would it ever stop hurting?</p>
<p>He pulled the gloves back off, dropping them onto the counter. Suddenly, he didn’t care how his hair looked. He wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the sofa and sleep for as long as he was able. His hair could wait.</p>
<p>As he faceplanted onto the sofa, he wondered, quietly, how long he could keep putting things off before they came back to bite him. His last thought before fading out of consciousness was just how much he didn’t care.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Will I ever post a new chapter at a decent hour?? The world may never know</p>
<p>Thank you all for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story so far!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's ya boy......finally back with an update.........<br/>It's  short one, I know. I have, unfortunately (or, i guess fortunately, from a financial perspective) been called back into work, and everything has been a bit crazy! It's nice to get out of the house, but can we get an F in the chat for any chance of this fic being updated on a regular schedule?? I have no plans to abandon it at all, but updates will probably be a little bit all over the place, timing-wise. Thank y'all for your patience!! I love u guys</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something was wrong.</p>
<p>The Distortion pondered the thought as it lurked within a doorway, just far enough to be out of view. Its quarry turned the corner ahead, glancing backwards nervously, but it let them go, its appetite soured.</p>
<p>Of <em>course</em> something was wrong. Everything had been wrong for so long now. “Wrong” was its very existence. This, though – this was something <em>else</em>. Something new, yet familiar. It raked its fingers along the alley wall irritably, scoring deep lines into the worn bricks.</p>
<p>It was a <em>feeling</em>, this wrongness, humming like so many discordant notes in the back of its mind. For weeks now, it had came and went, ebbing and flowing like the tides, occupying odd hours. The Distortion had ignored it at first – just something it had eaten, it had assumed. Why bother investigating something soon to be digested and forgotten?</p>
<p>The feeling had stayed. It stayed, and it grew, pushing at the edges of its consciousness, an awareness of <em>something</em>, persisting despite the Distortion’s efforts to push it away.</p>
<p>It was wrong in the fact that it was so <em>right</em>, a missing puzzle piece slotting neatly back into place after so long in its absence that the lack had become routine.</p>
<p>Falling backwards, the Distortion left its door where it stood, a quiet temptation for any curious passers-by. The hallways still hungered, after all.</p>
<p>No sound was made as its mockery of a physical form hit the floor, dissolving into an impossible rainbow of fractal shapes. It spiraled against the walls, the floor, the ceiling, lights flickering and paintings rattling against the walls with the weight of its discomfort.</p>
<p>And there was plenty of discomfort. If it had currently been in possession of a set of vocal cords, it would have shrieked. As it was, the ancient timbers of the corridor walls groaned and popped as they shifted and writhed, rearranging themselves as though any sense could be made of the pain and frustration the Distortion was trying so hard to ignore.</p>
<p>Time had never been something it had cared to track, but even still, it knew that much of it had passed since it had last felt anything like this. Not since…</p>
<p> Not since before Gerard Keay had died years ago – one last assistant sacrificed by Gertrude Robinson before her own violent death, no doubt. This was not him. This was something else, and Michael did not appreciate the intrusion.</p>
<p>This was different, more distant, like a melody muffled by a thick fog. It ebbed and flowed like the tides, coming and going at odd hours. It was familiar, but not to the Distortion – to Michael. Faded memories surfaced, of a last, doomed voyage, of a cold, quiet ship and its distant Captain.</p>
<p>The hallways rattled angrily once more as the Distortion pulled itself slowly back together. Shadows and spirals slid back over the walls and coalesced back into a passable imitation of a human body. That voyage had been the closest Michael Shelley had ever come to being consumed by any of the entities. Indeed, if he hadn’t opened the Distortion’s door, found the center, (it twisted uncomfortably at the memory, despite its best efforts not to,) young Mr. Shelley would likely have found himself wandering a vast, misty wasteland before the month was out.</p>
<p>Be that as it may, Michael Shelley was gone. All that was left was Michael. The Distortion. The single side of an irrational coin. Perhaps they were not of the watcher, and could not know everything, but even those devoted to solitude should know better than to try to claim Michael Shelley now.</p>
<p>A door formed in the wall beside it, and Michael smiled widely as it turned the knob. Perhaps it was not its way, but it seemed the Distortion had some hunting to do. It had been long since it had last visited the Lukas family; they would do well to be reminded not to toy with it, it seemed.</p>
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